


Part of the Deal

by flightrules



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: (Han and Leia have brief cameos), But also, Established Relationship, F/M, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Inappropriate use of a Lightsaber, Not just, Things have come to this, the challenges of dating a Skywalker, welp here we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9592346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightrules/pseuds/flightrules
Summary: You and Luke have been together a while now, and things are mostly good. He just has a tendency to put lightsaber practice over everything else... Including you.You've been putting up with it for ages, but dammit, you're done.This time, you're going to do something about it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I... don't even know anymore.
> 
> Here's hoping this at least amuses someone!

You're not wearing any underthings. 

It's uncomfortable. You've heard some people like it, but you're not a fan of the breeze between your legs when you walk. 

You only did this for him, thought it would be entertaining to think about while the two of you suffered through this formal reception. 

But he's not here.

Han comes to join you by the refreshment table. He picks up a piece of wennfruit wrapped in a thin slice of spiced meat, pops it in his mouth, then surreptitiously wipes his fingers on his pants. He looks as pained as you feel.

Leia’s the center of a small group nearby. Generals and admirals in planetary uniform are vying to make her laugh. Her pleasant smile turns to a grimace when she glances over at you, then shifts right back as she returns her attention to the group. 

“She hates it too,” Han says, choosing a tiny slice of sweetcake this time. “Just better at faking it,” he adds with his mouth full.

You take another sip of your drink. Why do Alliance planets all have such a fondness for syrupy, fruity things? What you need right now is a cup of caf. A cup of strong, bitter caf to settle your head and soothe your nerves. And maybe keep you from murdering Skywalker.

“Where's the kid?” Han asks.

You only agreed to come to this party because Luke said he'd be here. You're a pilot, not a politician. Dressing up makes your skin itch. Having to make small talk feels like sticking razors in your brain.

“I have no idea,” you say.

“He’s smarter than me then,” Han says ruefully. He licks sweet syrup off his fingers, wipes his hand against his leg again, and goes to join Leia's group. By the time he gets there he's wearing a huge grin and acting like he'd rather be there than anyplace else in the galaxy.

You do, actually, have an idea where Skywalker is. You've got to be in the same place if you're going to strangle him, so you start making your way toward the corridor.

“Commander Hartnett!” It's the Ambassador. 

Dammit. 

You stop, straighten your shoulders, and remind yourself that mingling at political receptions is a skill just like flying a starfighter is, and (as Leia keeps telling you) just as essential to the Alliance.

The Ambassador's eyes keep drifting to the low-cut neckline of your dress. He can't possibly have guessed you're naked underneath it, can he?

 

Thirty minutes later you finally make it out the door, having endured a string of terrible jokes, another glass of guaivia syrup, and an invitation to dinner. You tried to turn it down gracefully and accidently insulted the Ambassador and, by extension, half this planet’s population.

You can't curl up and die of embarrassment: You're one of the Rebellion’s best pilots (if you do say so yourself). It wouldn't be right to abandon them like that. But you sure as hell are going to have words with the man who left you to this fate.

 

He's in the slingtrak gym. On another night this huge room would be lined with locals placing bets on the slingthrower teams and dodging stray trakpods. The sizzle of a lightsaber blade, Luke's breathing, and the sound of his boots against the floor all seem small in the surrounding silence.

He's got two practice drones floating in the air around him. Drops of sweat fly off his face as he steps, spins, jumps to dodge one bolt and send two others bouncing away.

Just because he's beautiful doesn't mean he's getting away with this.

You wait until he finally extinguishes the blade, switches off the drones, and wipes his face on one sweat-soaked sleeve. Until he finally notices you're there. “Dara!” His eyes light up when he grins.

It’s another moment before he takes in what you're wearing and the expression on your face. 

“I put on a dress,” you say. Luke's grin fades. “I let Leia do my hair,” you continue. “I’ve been making _small talk._ ”

“Blast, I’m sorry.” Luke goes to gather up the drones. Hastily, he tucks them and the lightsaber hilt in a carry bag he's left near the door. “I'll get cleaned up and join you.”

“No,” you say. “You won't. I'm going back to quarters. I am getting out of this stupid frock. I am taking down my hair. I am putting on underwear.”

You catch a glimpse of Luke's mouth falling open as you turn and head back out the door, adding--just so he knows how damn uncomfortable this whole evening's been--”My kriffing twat’s been cold the entire night and it's _all your fault._ ”

Luke catches up with you as you head down the corridor. Somehow his apology made you even angrier. This isn't the first time he's done this. Or the third, probably not even the tenth. You know he loves you. You've got just enough Force sensitivity to be rock-solid certain.

You also know that on a regular basis, he pretty much forgets you exist.

“I've got to train,” he says, still breathing a little hard. 

“Sure,” you say, putting ice in your voice.

“I lost track of time,” he says.

“Obviously.”

“I'm sorry,” he says again, and in your peripheral vision you see him reach out a hand toward you as if to grab your arm and stop you. But he doesn't actually do it.

And that's what melts you, for the moment at least. Luke's never made you do anything you didn't want to. 

In your world of starfighter battles, of prisoners of war, of violent rebellion, that's like gold.

“Godsdammit Luke.” You take his hand in yours as you continue walking. 

 

Back in your quarters, Luke sets his carry bag down on the table in your tiny common room. “I hope it wasn’t too awful,” he says. “I didn’t mean to do that to you.”

You’re still mad, but he does seem genuinely sorry. And you’ve been walking around with no underthings on for the past four hours, and he’s in soft workout clothes that stretch just so over shoulders and thighs, and he smells of sweat and, faintly, of electricity from the lightsaber and the drones. 

You can be mad in the morning.

You go to him and he kisses your forehead, keeping you at arm’s length. He looks down at the sweat stain making a vee down the front of his shirt, tugs it away from his body. “You’ve got to let me clean up,” he says. “Get out of that fancy stuff and go climb into bed? I’ll be there in a minute.”

You grab his shirt front yourself and pull him into a proper kiss. “Don’t keep me waiting, Skywalker.”

When he comes up for air, his eyes travel from your face down to your waist, and below. The Ambassador’s gaze on you was creepy, but Luke’s just makes you feel warm. 

“Did you really go all evening without…?”

You guide his hand so he can find out for himself and watch the smile that lights his face. 

 

It’s been an hour. You struggled out of your dress. (It wasn't sexy, doing that: Tight-fitting dresses look like an invitation to get a girl naked, but actually they tend to get hung up on hips and breasts and shoulders). You found every one of the dozen hairpins that Leia stuck on your head, so your shoulder-length hair is back the way it’s supposed to be. Luke likes you looking like a pilot, anyway, not a princess.

You cleaned your teeth in the small ‘fresher unit in the bedroom. The main unit’s a communal room down the hall, where Luke would have gone to use the sonic shower. You thought you heard him come back, but maybe it was a sound from next door. There must have been a line for the shower, because he still hasn’t joined you in the bedroom.

It’s comfy in your shared bed. You changed the sheets before you went out tonight, because you figured you’d be getting them dirty again soon. The pillows are military-issue thin, but Luke has managed to sneak some extras from the supply room. But hells, comfy is not the point. You were not supposed to be alone here.

Finally, you pull a robe off its hook by the clothes locker and go to look for him.

He’s right there on the sofa, dressed in a fresh set of the soft, loose fitting trousers and t-shirt that anyone can pick up and trade in at the refresher room. He's sitting with back bent, leaning over the low table where you usually set your drinks at the end of the day. He’s got his knees open so he can get right up to the table. On the table is his lightsaber hilt, disassembled. He’s doing something to the crystal housing, a fine-tipped tool in his right hand.

You don’t even have words. 

It’s a good thing your Force sensitivity doesn’t extend to telekinesis, because there are sharp knives in the cooking unit and your thoughts are headed toward stabbing.

Luke must have caught the thought because he looks up, startled.

“What,” you say, as your brain slowly assembles the sentence. “What in the name of the godsdamned Emperor are you _doing?_ ”

He holds the crystal housing out to you. “The blade had a funny buzz to it tonight. I thought I’d take a quick look, see if I could get it right again.”

 _You thought you’d…_ Suddenly, you’re _seething._ “Do you even _see_ me?”

A crease forms above Luke’s nose, between pretty blue eyes, in response. “Of course I see you.”

You can hear your own voice rising. “I am flesh and blood, Luke Skywalker, and I am _right here,_ and you’re--” Words flee again as you gesture at the lightsaber and the case of tools beside it.

He sets the crystal housing down. “I did it again, didn’t I?”

You’re glaring at him so hard the muscles in your forehead hurt. “You do it _always._ You forget about plans, you miss dinner, you’re gone half the time we’re on leave. You left me alone with a slimy politician twice my age with no kriffing underwear on!”

Luke looks down at the lightsaber. You refuse to notice that he looks like a little boy who’s been caught at mischief. Or the way his eyelashes make shadows against his lower lids.

“Maybe we should open up this relationship.” You’re so angry you don’t even care that his face goes stricken when you say that. “You _obviously_ love that damn thing more than you love me. Fuck, maybe I should just--” Afterwards, you’ll have no idea why this made sense at the time, but you cross to the low table and pick up the lightsaber hilt. 

“Maybe I should just learn to make love to this thing. If I’ve got to share you, at least I can get something out of it, too.”

Your robe’s already hanging half open. You only tied it loosely. You weren’t planning to have it on for long. 

There's a little tub of organic machine lubricant beside the tool case. A lightsaber is, essentially, a living thing. The lubricant is safe for kyber crystals. Safe for human skin.

You put one foot up on the table, leg bare, robe open and skimming over your hips. You lean forward, saber hilt still in one hand, and dip two fingers into the little tub.

You’re expecting Luke to stop you, to jump up, to yell, to grab the weapon back before you hurt it. 

Instead he stares up at you, lips parted, the black of widened pupils edging out the blue of his eyes.

 _Fucking furious_ and _seriously turned on_ fight in your brain, a tingle at the back of your head telling you that the Force is involved in this somewhere. For a second you think, _He wouldn’t… Would he?_

“You don’t have to,” he says, and it comes out sounding strangled.

And that does it. Your hand goes between your own legs, fingers drawing the lubricant gel in a line between labia already slippery and wet, then dipping inside to work the lubricant over vaginal walls. You use the same two fingers to spread both inner and outer labia open, the way you sometimes do when you’re guiding Luke’s cock into you, when the two of you are tangled together, working up a sweat in that comfortable bed.

He stops you before you can draw the saber hilt toward your body, dipping his own fingers into the lubricant and leaning across the table to slick it over the handle.

Your eyes slide closed as you push the saber hilt into you but you _know,_ the way you _know_ that Luke loves you, that his eyes are open and he’s watching every movement. Watching the saber hilt become one with your body, disappearing ridge by ridge inside you. 

It’s cold, and it’s heavy. 

Your muscles twitch, fighting back against the size and weight of it, but Force help you, doing this, it feels--

It feels like raw power. 

Luke hands wrap around yours now, gentle over your fingers. Pressure from the heavy saber hilt lessens as he holds it with you, drawing it back slowly so the ridged metal doesn’t catch on sensitive skin. And then suddenly the cold is replaced by the warmth of his mouth. Your thoughts feel disorganized and stumbling as you wonder, _What does machine lubricant taste like?_ And then his tongue is making careful strokes in the folds and lines of you, and then over the ridge of your clit and back down again to touch the space where you’re suddenly feeling empty and wanting, and all you can think is, he can be late for parties forever if he’ll just keep doing _that._

Whether it’s Force sense or natural talent, he always knows when you’re just at the edge, when your body is tense with pleasure and almost at that shuddering release that lets you sleep afterward, even on the worst days, even when a battle’s been lost and friends are gone and the Empire feels inevitable. He always knows, and he knows now. He holds you at that edge, one warm hand cupped between your legs while he stands. He uses the other hand to shove his loose sweatpants down to his hips, and then, a little rough, reaches under your robe to put both hands on your backside and snug you up against him. He guides your left thigh up, knee bent, to the level of his hip.

When he slides into you, it makes you cry.

You’re pounding a fist against his shoulder while he rocks into you, and you’re sobbing into his neck, “You don’t see me, you forget me, when I die out there you won’t even _remember._ ”

“I see you,” he answers, holding you so tight it makes your ribs hurt. “I could never forget you. If you die out there,” he says, voice low against your ear, “I promise I’ll remember. I’ll remember everything.”

The feeling when he comes inside you, when your own muscles clench and shake and suddenly let go, is one of power, too, but it’s different, stronger, _safer._ When Luke’s own shudders subside, he’s leaning against you as you lean against him. You’re holding each other up, the lightsaber forgotten on the table behind you.

 

You wake in the morning with those clean sheets drawn up over both of you, Luke’s arms wrapped around you and his head resting on your chest. You’ve got one elbow bent, hand against his hair. 

Your fingers are still covered with machine lubricant, gone tacky now that it's been mixed with sweat and then dried on your skin. You rub them over his hair, amused at how it makes the strands stick up. 

“Cut it out,” Luke mumbles against you. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m petting your head.”

“No you’re not,” he says. “You’re getting me all sticky, I can tell.”

“As if you’re not already?” There’s a sheen of lubricant over his cheek and you know that other parts of both of you are covered in the stuff.

“Oh gods,” he moans, realizing. “It’s going to take me hours to clean that thing.” He must feel you start to tense because he adds, quickly, “Worth it, though.”

Something’s still not quite right, and he can sense it. He lifts his head and those bright blue eyes meet yours. “After we have breakfast together,” he adds.

“You can go ahead and get started,” you sigh. “I’ll cook for us.”

Luke lowers his head back down, snuggling against your breasts. “I’ll try to do better.”

“I know you will,” you say. “You’ll try, and you’ll fail, because this is who you are. And I’ll keep on yelling at you, and I’ll keep on loving you, because I love who you are.”

He’s silent for a little while, and then he says, into your skin, “You won’t die out there.”

“I might,” you say, because it’s true.

He knows it. “We might,” he agrees. “You’ll still be the best thing that ever happened in my life.”

“Better than blowing up the Death Star?”

You can feel his smile. “Doesn’t even compare.”

You shove him off you and reach for your robe. “Go work on your lightsaber. I’ll start some caf.”

 

A little later, you set a steaming cup of strong, bitter caf beside him as he carefully wipes down the saber handle. 

An hour after that, he’s still sitting there, balancing the kyber crystal back in its housing, oblivious to anything around him. You put a hand on his chin and turn his face to kiss you before you take the mug, caf gone cold, and dump it in the kitchen unit’s sink.


End file.
